


Chess

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (or multiple shots hahA HA) - Freeform, Gen, One Shot, happy fluffy friend stuff - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:10:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7284901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s a simple enough concept,” Combeferre says. “I’m red and Grantaire is blue. The king is represented by a full shot glass. The queen is filled to this line here—” He picks up his own queen to show.</p><p>“Touch move!” Grantaire yelps. “Touch move!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chess

“My God, you two. What is _this?_ ”

Grantaire leans back against the couch, squints up at Enjolras.

“We offending your delicate sensibilities, O Leader?”

“No, no. I’m just… confused.”

Combeferre pauses in his scrutiny of the chessboard.

“It’s a simple enough concept,” he says, taking off his glasses. He breathes on the lenses and wipes them on the edge of his shirt as he talks. “I’m red and Grantaire is blue. The king is represented by a full shot glass. The queen is filled to this line here—” He picks up his own queen to show.

“Touch move!” Grantaire yelps. “Touch move!”

“And so on, until we get to the pawns, which are only filled to this first line,” Combeferre finishes, indicating where on the queen. He sets her down on the board again, pushing a blue glass to the side with a dull _thunk_. “Fine by me, R.”

“God-fucking-dammit.” Grantaire downs the contents of his bishop.

“This is absurd,” says Enjolras, but he’s squatting down on his haunches to watch them anyway, peering at the board. “A stalemate would give you both alcohol poisoning.”

“Well, fortunately, we’re better at chess than that,” mutters Grantaire. He leaps a knight over a line of Combeferre’s pawns and pins him: king and queen. “Check.”

Combeferre’s rook swoops in and knocks the knight away. Grantaire swears again, louder.

“Yeah, I’m better at chess and R’s better at drinking, anyway,” says Combeferre.

“The trick,” says Grantaire, wincing around the burn of the vodka, “is to just take all of Ferre’s pawns as quick as you can and get him thoroughly wasted before he can move in on you.”

“I have six pawns left,” Combeferre stage-whispers to Enjolras.

“Five,” says Grantaire, tapping one with his other knight. “Fi-i-ive. Drink up. This’ll be an even match soon enough.”

He’s right. Within three moves, Combeferre’s rook joins the line-up. Within five moves, Ferre’s lost another pawn. Within ten, half of his back row is in R’s possession and he’s giggling about Enjolras’ vest.

“…I mean, who even _owned_ this thing before you? It’s gotta be a hundred years old. _Two_ hundred years old. I wonder if these are the original buttons. I’ll bet you Cosette would know. We should ask her. You should know. It’s gotta be an antique, and you should know if it is. Look at it. It looks like a little xylophone. It looks like… R, gimme your pens—”

Grantaire, grinning, hands over the ballpoints that he’s got tucked into the breast pocket of his flannel. They turn into drumsticks in Ferre’s hands.

“Ouch,” growls Enjolras. “Ouch, get off of me.”

“Embrace it, Enj; embrace it. You’re a xylophone now.”

“I _like_ this vest.”

“I like it too. I love it,” says Combeferre, still tapping away at Enjolras’ chest with the pens. “You’re my xylophone buddy.  Whenever someone asks me about you now, I’m going to reference you as, ‘Enjolras. You know Enjolras. That’s my boy who dresses like a xylophone.’”

“I love this game,” says Grantaire, blissfully, and takes poor Ferre’s queen.

It’s all downhill from there, of course. Grantaire opts for a quick route to checkmate, a mercy under the circumstances, when he could happily go on watching Combeferre harass Enjolras for hours.

When Ferre has downed his king in two spluttering gulps, he leans back against the couch, giggling, his eyes shut.

“He always wins,” he groans to Enjolras. “He always wi-i-iiiiins. I want to beat him someday.”

“Ah,” says Grantaire. “You know I’m no match for you in real chess.”

“No one’s a match for Ferre in real chess,” says Enjolras, patting Combeferre on the shoulder. The corners of his eyes are softer now; the edges of his mouth are almost upturned. “He was Class C in fourth grade.”

“Haven’t played in a long time,” says Combeferre. “Plus the Elo System’s fucked.”

“What’s the Elo System?” Grantaire asks.

“Ahhhh, God, don’t make me explain right now,” Ferre sighs, opening his eyes and pawing at Grantaire’s flannel. He catches hold of the collar. “R.”

That seems to be a complete sentence.

“Combeferre.”

“Good game.”

“Good game.”


End file.
